Right
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Post-finale. Oneshot. Written in honor of the first anniversary of their wedding. "You always did like being right. Being able to say I told you so."


**Author's Note: **Inspired by the quote "Two wrongs make a twisted right" and written for the one year celebration of Chuck and Blair's anniversary. This is set following the five-year fast forward.

* * *

The chatter in his ear causes him to smile. A wide, bright thing where his teeth show, where his wife rolls her head against the lip of the white cast iron tub and shifts her gaze from the water to his face just so she can catch a glimpse of his happiness. And she relishes in the sight even as the water turns tepid, as her skin becomes dotted with goosebumps while waiting patiently for him to complete the call.

Except the phone is held in front of her face rather than set aside, taken into her hand after she dries it on the hand towel draped over the edge of the tub, and pressed against her ear rather than set aside by his hand. The corner of her ruby red lips lift into a smile as the chatter reaches her own ears, and she hums in contentment as the voice on the other end of the line fills her in on the events of the day so far – a snowball fight in Central Park with Uncle Nate, tea at the Carlyle with Zayde and Grandmère. His excitement dropping as he tells her about the yucky food Humphrey tried to make him eat at breakfast this morning; his excitement mounting once more as he tells her about the movie Aunt Serena has promised to take him to see tonight.

"I'm sure you'll have a great time, baby," she murmurs into the speaker of the phone when he finally gives her a chance to interject into the conversation. "And do you remember what Daddy and I told you before we left?"

"Say please and thank you and no screaming."

"Scheming, Henry. Scheming," she corrects unable to help the laugh that escapes because she's not entirely sure the mispronunciation was an innocent mistake. "But no screaming, too, okay?"

"Okay," he promises. "I miss you, Mommy."

The smile on her face drops ever so slightly because she cannot fathom how her mother was able to leave her behind so easily and so often when she misses so Henry terribly. But he is already skipping ahead in the conversation informing her that he needs to go because Aunt Serena has arrived to take him to the movies and rushing to hang up the phone so quickly that he nearly misses her words about how she loves him and misses him, too.

And the phone is taken from her hand and set on the counter so that she can dip her hands back under the water, press against the cast iron, and shift forward in the tub. A shift that causes the water to slosh against the edges only to spill over when he lowers himself into the tub behind her, when he places his legs alongside hers and allows her to fall back against his chest. His head dips low so that his lips can find the nape of her neck, so that he can whisper words as his lips press against her chilled skin.

"He's fine."

"You're the one that called," she retorts haughtily, and his lips lift into another wide smile so that his teeth graze against her skin ever so slightly.

An action that causes her to squirm against him; an action that causes her words to trail off until they morph into a gasp. And his hands fall to curl around her hip bones and steady her movements, to hold her still as his fingers stroke against the skin pulled taunt in the space between her hip and her belly button.

"And are you fine?"

"I'm—"

She trails off once more as she searches for the right word to describe how she feels, for the word that will encompass all her emotions because his hands are tracing the curve of her stomach and his lips are tracing the curve of her neck and all the synonyms are disappearing from her brain and stepping out of reach from her grasp.

"Right."

He echoes the word back to her in a voice that sounds almost startled with surprise like he's taking every letter and contemplating its individual meaning. Weighing its value against what she has told him in the past before deciding if he agrees with its employment or not.

And she hums her confirmation as her hand curls against his under the water, as she follows the slide of his hand across her stomach. The reactionary movement – one that comes earlier than it ever did before – feels likes bubbles, like the flutter of tiny wings against her skin, and the corners of her lips lift into a bright, wide smile once more because everything is quite right with her world.

Because up is up and down is down and all the twisted, spiraling paths have become straight and right and lined with peonies. Darkness and struggles to come, for sure, but there is nothing as tragic or painful as in the past and nothing that she cannot handle, nothing so heavy that they cannot hold it in their hands together set up as a roadblock block before them. Everything – the devastation and the happiness – existing in tandem to create the right kind of love for him and her.

"You always did like being right," he murmurs against her hair before shifting downward to press his lips against her neck once more. "Being able to say I told you so."

And she tips her head backwards, rests it against his shoulder so that she can roll her head and shift her gaze from his hands to his cheek. So that she can press her lips – still lifted in a wide grin – against his cheek and whispers her words in his ear.

"I told you so."

"I told you so," he repeats adding emphasis as he flexes his hand against her stomach in a reminder that he called this, that he knew the answer even before she was willing to admit the question existed. But she shakes her head against his shoulder so violently that her hair falls from its clip to sweep against her shoulders and brush against his chest because she was right and still is to this day.

"I told you ten years ago that I was consumed by my love for you and that I knew you felt the same, that everything could be for something if you would just tell me it was true. I was right. I told you so."

And there is a long quiet moment where his thumb strokes against the pale pink etching on her side that she loathes and his pinky slides against the faded white scar from surgery he has spent years seeing not as a scar but as a badge of survival for the two he holds dearest. Where he says nothing and yet everything as his lips lift into another smile – a wide, bright thing where his teeth show and where she cannot help but pause to bask in the glow of his happiness.

"We were twisted and wrong and yet it ended up being right. You were right. We - our love is right."


End file.
